Barcelona, Part 1
Following a brisk walk to the train station at 4:30 am, past groups of revelers enjoying the holiday and planning to push their Friday/Saturday festivities into the late a.m., I arrive at the train station. I’m early, only to discover that the train, in true Spanish fashion, is scheduled to leave at least 20 minutes late. The place is empty in the middle, great floor polished and shining, with people clustered round the edges, in groups, pairs, or solitary. I sit down on a peripheral bench, and contemplate my upcoming trip.
Despite having ample amounts of time, I still feel on edge– that near-departure nervousness that only recedes once in one’s assigned seat. The thrum of a warmed up train vibrates through the air like electricity, and the girl at the end of my bench taps her foot nervously, sending more vibrations through me. I practice deep breathing techniques, then lean back to watch the station slowly begin to fill up, and the clock hands inch onward.
The train arrives at 5:30 am, hissing up to the platform. When I enter, the light in the car is muted, with that special almost-hush that hangs around groups of strangers sleeping together. I have a window seat, the other empty, and snuggle in by myself. Warm air comes from the vents– comfortable and soothing. At first I watch the scenery roll by in the gray dawn, but then the gentle rocking lulls me asleep. I half doze, and half contemplate– past, present, future.
Dawn breaks ahead of the train and I see pink sky and clouds. Small towns roll by, overlooked by stone castles on hills, some with towers crumbling, but all whispering back to a past of clanking armor and lute music. On the other side, the Mediterranean Sea spread sout in a flat silvery shiny sheet.
I get into Barcelona on time, despite the late start. In the metro, construction is holding up the line. Nearby, a group of English-speakers try to get information out of a nearby metro employee with little luck.
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?” one asks in exasperation.
“I do,” I respond after a moment’s pause, stepping forward, and repeating their question to the woman. We begin a relay of words, English-Spanish-English, with me in the middle. The tourists, not wanting to wait for delays, argue among themselves and leave. The woman and I chat for a few moments, then the metro appears (almost as though mocking the impatient Americans). She says goodbye, making a light-hearted comment about wishing she spoke English, and warning me about pickpockets. I step inside with a smile on my face.
From the metro station I find my hostel, chatting with a nice girl from Peru at the desk. Walking back down the street, I recognize the architecture and realize I am in the immediate neighborhood of Gaudi’s Casa Mitla. Happy about that, and happy joining my friends a few blocks down.
We have coffee, then take a walk down Las Ramblas, chatting the whole while. It’s crowded, but just as I remember- people, street performers, and flowers flowers flowers. We stumble upon the Plaza de George Orwell, with a modern sculpture. Follow small streets to the front of the cathedral where large groups of Sardona dancers perform. Then twist through the crowd at the Christmas market. We find a restaurant, order a huge dish of delicious paella, and talk over it for hours.
We move on– the Sagrada Familia, Poble Espagna, the Joan Miro museum, the Olympic stadium. We marvel at the gorgeous view of orange sky and pink clouds over the bright city, a strip of the Mediterranean shining on the horizon, lampposts around us glowing in the darkening light. Later followed food, more talk, and ice cream under Christmas lights strung through pedestrian alleyways.
Tags: Barcelona, Europe, Spain, train, Travel
admin
Leave a Reply